


Red Sky at Night

by Jackalope80



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Epistolary, F/M, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 13:41:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13952772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackalope80/pseuds/Jackalope80
Summary: Thomas and Captain Flint write to each other about the mysterious night-lives of their pirate friends.





	Red Sky at Night

7 June 1720

My dearest Thomas,

You have no idea how relieved I am to finally hear from you. These last few weeks have been torture and I must admit I have not borne up under the strain as gracefully as I would like. Having everyone offer condolences to Miranda and I about your death while knowing you were alive has been strange, to say the least. It’s been scarcely an hour since your letter arrived. I have so much to tell you, and I waited until now, until I heard you were safe in Boston, to start writing. I’ve sat down many times and picked up the pen to begin a letter, so that I’d have a head start. But I found that I could not bring myself to even write your name until I heard from you.

I’ve met the most extraordinary young woman, scarcely more than a girl in fact - I overheard her telling her father she would be in charge of all New Providence by the time she’s twenty-five, and I have no doubt of that. Her name, I have learned, is Eleanor Guthrie. She and Miranda are already like oil and water, probably because they are so much alike, both headstrong and intelligent and ruthless. Like Miranda, she is also exquisitely beautiful. 

We met the last time I was in Nassau and I fully expect her to be a fixture there for decades. I’ve known of the Guthrie family for years, of course, and I’ve had the distinct displeasure to encounter her father many times. He’s a small man, small-minded and small of character. I know you would have more compassion for his failings than I do. At any rate, I met his young daughter a fortnight ago when I went to the inn to arrange for the sale of my latest prizes and trade with her for supplies. You know I can be brusque at the best of times, and I did not soften my manners in deference to her age, her sex, or her station. I like to think by now that I’ve earned the right to speak to anyone as if we are on equal footing. Hardened pirates twice my size have been cowed by my manner, but this young lady stared right back at me and then bent to total up the value of my prizes as if she had ice water in her veins. She gave me a fair price, and I was so surprised by her poise and self-control that I agreed before I knew what I was saying. 

After Miss Guthrie and I had signed our agreement, I went downstairs to have a celebratory mug of ale alone, although the tavern was crowded with customers of the brothel upstairs. I considered paying one of the street urchins who are always underfoot for the gossip about Miss Guthrie, as I had no doubt there would be plenty of idle talk about such an unusual young lady. But I needn’t have bothered; Miss Guthrie was the primary subject of conversation in the tavern. By keeping quiet and looking occupied -- luckily I had one of your books handy, so I pretended to read while I eavesdropped -- I learned that Miss Guthrie is the sometimes-lover of Charles Vane and sometimes-patron of a prostitute named Max, one of the more beautiful and skilled ladies of the brothel, if the gossip was to be believed. Odder still, Miss Guthrie has evidently refused offers from both parties to make their arrangement more permanent. 

I must stop now as a storm is threatening. Please do write me the moment you get this. I suppose I should be more calculating and measured in my words to you, but I’m afraid I cannot muster the same self-control I employ in all other areas of my life when I’m speaking to you, even through the intermediary of paper and pen.

Yours, always,  
James

 

26 June 1720

My darling James,

Dearest, I am so sorry to have been the cause of you worrying. Rest assured that I am perfectly safe here in Boston, and that I will redouble my efforts to keep you apprised of my situation so that you never spend one moment fretting about me without cause. 

Boston is perfect, or it would be if you were here. You will not believe the adventure I have had this last week. I met a young man and woman who claim to be pirates formerly of Nassau -- perhaps you know them? They don’t look very fearsome, or at least he does not; I’d wager she has seen enough sea battles for ten pirate kings. 

But I’m getting ahead of myself. I met these two rogues a week ago when I was in my chambers reviewing the documents of a land sale in the western provinces. It was rather dull going, so when my secretary rapped on the doorframe and announced I had visitors, I was glad of the interruption, his puzzled look notwithstanding. He hesitated and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, until I told him rather impatiently to show them in. 

I’m not sure what I expected, but it was not the slim young man in the three-cornered hat who appeared in my office, even less so his companion, a diminutive woman wearing an oversized men’s coat, with a crumpled wide-brimmed hat sitting askew on her bright red hair. Without waiting for my invitation, the young man perched easily in a chair facing my desk, his darting brown eyes the only indication that he was less than relaxed. The woman slouched in the doorway until her companion gestured at the chair next to him. Only then did she sit, settling her glare on a coatrack in the far corner of the room.

I have to confess I watched this all in some amusement, and I was tempted to wait for them to speak. But my curiosity got the better of me and I introduced myself, asking what brought them to my chambers.

The young man took the lead, as I had suspected he would, introducing himself as Jack Rackham and the young lady as Anne Bonny. I suspect my face betrayed some of my surprise at hearing these names; Calico Jack and Anne Bonny are figures of mythical stature here in Boston, the pirate king and queen of the West Indies. I hardly expected to meet them during my lifetime, even less so to have them walk into my chambers looking perfectly ordinary, or near enough, and ask for my assistance.

They were, they explained, in a spot of legal trouble owing to a scuffle they had gotten into a week or so back. “The sixteenth,” Rackham piped up, counting on his fingers, adding curiously, “the night of the full moon.” I raised an eyebrow at this odd method of tracking the date but motioned for them to continue. Rackham picked up the narrative thread as Ms. Bonny appeared at a loss for words. He and Ms. Bonny had exited the neighborhood inn quite late that night and had been accosted by a group of toughs, one of whom apparently recognized the pair from a Wanted poster he’d seen in London. He made disparaging remarks about their parentage and moral habits which Mr. Rackham thankfully spared me, noting only that the remarks were “rather common” and not very creative. Ms. Bonny had not taken the long view, however, and in the ensuing scuffle, three of the men sustained injuries they would later succumb to. The fourth, a burly ginger chap I know by sight named Roundtree, would evidently recover, albeit without his right eye and a sizeable chunk of flesh from his not inconsequential right arm.

“I take it these injuries were inflicted in self-defense?” I asked wryly, thinking I had some idea where this was headed.

“Yes, I think it might be properly called that,” agreed Rackham. “We certainly did not go out that night seeking a dust-up with Roundtree or with anyone else.”

“And that’s what you would like me to prove in court?” I prodded.

“Good lord, no,” Rackham said. “Who said anything about court? Roundtree has assured us he will not prefer charges, and the other witnesses are -- well, they’re hardly in a position to go around making accusations.”

“I confess I’m at a loss then,” I said, resting my chin on my folded hands. “What is it you require my assistance with?”

“We would like Roundtree, er, disposed of. Alive, of course,” Rackham added hastily. “His remarks may have been injudicious and his conduct unwise, but we have no wish to inflict further harm on him. We would, however, rest much easier were he somewhere far from Boston. Panama, perhaps? Though it’s perhaps a bit damp there at the moment.”

“Why is his presence here so distressing to you? You’ve bested him and his friends at fisticuffs, or whatever it was that ended with three of them dead.” Ms. Bonny scowled and glanced at me for the first time all day. 

“I’m not sure if you know Mr. Roundtree, sir,” began Rackham, and I nodded that I did. “He’s the sort of man who likes to be thought fearsome and fierce, and he was rather taken aback to have lost so thoroughly to a woman, especially when the numbers were in his favor.”

“A woman?” I gaped, and Rackham nodded as if I were a particularly slow-witted student. “Am I to understand that Ms. Bonny did all the fighting that night?”

“All,” said Rackham, rather proudly. “Being a man of rather overweening pride and with a great deal to prove to his fellow roughnecks, he concocted a story to explain how Anne bested him. He’s going around telling people that she turned into some sort of savage beast with yellow eyes and long fangs, and that she mauled his friends with the ferocity of a starved she-wolf.”

“And that,” I said slowly and clearly, “is not the case?”

“Sir,” Rackham said, smiling and spreading his hands wide in a well-practiced gesture. “Would we be here if it were?”

Ms. Bonny had gone back to glaring at a corner of the room, turned nearly away from me in her chair. I wondered briefly if Rackham had cooked up this fantastical tale to keep me from sniffing out some more nefarious purpose. But I suspect Ms. Bonny would not have looked so uncomfortable if Rackham had not been hiding the truth from me in plain sight. Of course I have no proof of this - perhaps you can tell me what you know about them?

I agreed to help them, as far as I’m able. How could I turn down such an adventure? I’m not sure what the connection to the moon cycles is, but I will track them meticulously and will let you know what I discover. 

Please keep me apprised of your own adventures, my love. 

Yours always,  
Thomas

13 July 1720

My own Thomas,

I am exceedingly pleased to hear you are enjoying yourself in Boston and even more so to hear that you’re safe. I confess to sometimes wishing your life there were dull, partly so I would be assured of your safety and partly because it might make you desire my presence with more enthusiasm. But I know this is foolish when I spend my time storming Spanish galleons and sneaking up on enemy encampments under the cover of night. I have no right to ask you to sequester yourself for me. Besides, if I did that, I wouldn’t have the pleasure of reading your delightfully detailed letters.

I do indeed know Mr. Rackham and Ms. Bonny. We have had our professional differences but I have always liked them both, the former for his total disregard for authority and the latter for her ferocity and loyalty. I am glad to hear they have landed near you, so that I will now be updated on their actions as well as your own.

The most shocking part of your letter, that dealing with Ms. Bonny and her beast-like appearance in battle, may not be as shocking to me as you had anticipated. Or at least, the idea of humans taking on the appearance of animals is not totally foreign to me. There was a legend here in Nassau of a man who could transform into a wolf at night, and many a midnight raid was laid at his feet in those days. This was all supposed to have happened years before I came here, but the stories lived on and grew in mythic stature. Any livestock killed in the night or women that suddenly went missing were said to be the work of the Black Wolf.

Of course, I believed none of this and would have gone on disbelieving it. But in recent months, talk on the island of a mythical wolf creature has undergone somewhat of a revival. Even more curiously, the villagers now refer to it as the White Wolf. I pressed one to explain the name change, and he claimed his brother-in-law had seen a wolf-like creature prowling near his chickens, and that the creature had a long mane of very pale hair, hence the new name. The man added that we were lucky the Red Wolf had not been seen in months and speculated that it had been killed. “The Red Wolf is the most fierce and bloodthirsty of all,” he said reverently. “If I’d’ve seen it coming, I’d say my prayers right then and there.” How an ordinary person could hope to kill such a creature did not seem to trouble him, so I kept my speculations to myself.

I did, however, pay a visit to Miss Guthrie that day. We have been seeing a great deal of one another lately, and it has been extremely pleasant to have another kindred spirit to talk to. However, she had begged off the previous night, saying she had to update the accounts of the inn and that she expected it to take many hours. I did not mind the break and used the time to catch up on my reading. But the words of the man in the tavern piqued my curiosity.

I had expected Miss Guthrie to be indisposed, but she received me in her drawing room. She was still in her dressing gown, leafing through a stack of papers with her long blond braid snaking over one shoulder. Nothing in this was unusual except the dark circles under her eyes.   
She greeted me without looking up and I took the chair across from her desk.

“Still reviewing the accounts?” I asked in my most gentle voice. She nodded wearily. “I didn’t finish last night,” she explained. This would have been plausible if she had been anyone but Eleanor Guthrie, a woman with an excellent head for numbers and a habit of staying up until all hours to complete a task. For her to leave until morning a task she’d set herself for the previous night was unheard of. 

“I hear there was a raid on Bradshaw’s chicken coop last night,” I said casually. “And?” she asked, still not looking up from the accounts. “I wondered if you might know something about it,” I finished, in the same light tone of voice. 

Miss Guthrie finally set her pen down and looked up at me. “I’m very tired, James. I did not sleep well last night and I must finish the accounts before I meet with my partners this afternoon. Whatever you’re trying to insinuate, please just say it.”

“Miss Guthrie,” I said, “I am on your side. I have no desire to catch you out in a lie, though I have no doubt you’ve lied to me many times since we met. Most likely it’s for my own good.” Here she raised an eyebrow. I continued, “However, if there is a savage wolf creature going about Nassau in the middle of the night, I need to know about it, even if the worst thing it does is raid a chicken coop and scare some witless farmers. If it turns out you know something about this creature, there may be something I can do to help. That’s all I ask. You’re the fiercest and bravest woman I know, but that doesn’t mean you won’t end up on the wrong side of some idiot farmer’s gun.”

Her face finally softened a fraction, and she reached across the desk and took my hand. I held her strong fingers in mine for a long moment as she gazed at me steadily. 

Finally she spoke. “Thank you, James. I apologize for my manners. No doubt you’re used to them by now. This is something I must handle alone, I think. I can’t ask for your help without putting you in danger. But I thank you for your friendship, and for not -- for not judging me.”

This all might be a coincidence, but I consider it fairly definitive proof that Miss Guthrie and Ms. Bonny are suffering from the same malady, if one can in fact call it suffering. As close as I am to Miss Guthrie, I’m not prepared to state with any degree of certainty that anything she told me is true. Or to put it another way: I’m quite sure I saw what she wanted me to see and heard what she had planned in advance to tell me. Take that however you would like. 

How fascinating it is that we should both encounter a young lady werewolf at the same time, so far away from one another, and in such different settings! I consider it highly likely that our recently departed Red Wolf is Ms. Bonny, which suggests the question: who is the Black Wolf?

Goodbye for now, my dearest. I hope you are enjoying the books I’ve sent.

Yours always,

James

 

3 August 1720

My dearest James,

You will be surprised (I think) to hear that I may be able to shed some light on your question about the Black Wolf. I agree, it’s very curious indeed that both of us should encounter werewolves, and to my mind it suggests two possibilities: one, that there is something about you and me that attracts these creatures to us; and two, that there are far more of them than anyone realizes. I must admit I find both possibilities terribly exciting. 

Another Nassau pirate has recently arrived in Boston on a ship called the Ranger. His name is Charles Vane and he is apparently friends or associates with Ms. Bonny and Mr. Rackham. I take it you’re acquainted with him as well, since Rackham says Vane was a fixture in Nassau, so I need not describe his formidable stature and piercing eyes. I confess my first thought was that the Black Wolf, if he is indeed real, must be standing before me now, for it’s difficult to imagine anyone more wolflike than this man Vane. 

However, appearances deceived me, as they are wont to do. If I’d been thinking clearly, I would have recalled that Ms. Bonny is not particularly imposing and is in fact rather petite and delicate looking. And yet if the tittle-tattle of Nassau is to be believed, she’s the most fierce of all these bloodthirsty creatures. 

I resolved the issue with the unfortunate Mr. Roundtree to the satisfaction of all parties concerned, if you will permit me a bit of self-congratulation, by inquiring about the dockyards for open positions on board any outbound trade vessels. It was during the course of my inquiries that I made Mr. Vane’s acquaintance. He was in the process of unloading his own vessel, assisted by Mr. Rackham. Rackham introduced me to his friend, who was a wealth of information about the various ships inhabiting the harbor and the captains thereof. He pointed me in the direction of a trade vessel bound for Spain the next day, and it was the work of a moment for me to approach said vessel’s captain and offer him a small consideration to employ our Mr. Roundtree in any way he saw fit on his upcoming voyage. I also hinted that, were Mr. Roundtree to decide to prolong his stay in Spain indefinitely, there might be a further reward awaiting the captain, and I fancy he took my meaning.

By way of thanks, Rackham and I insisted that Vane allow us to stand him a pint at the local taproom. He resisted at first, claiming he did not consume spirits before dark, but we reasoned with him that beer did not count as spirits and that it would be dark by the time we reached the taproom anyway. I do not think it was only my imagination that Rackham’s motives were similar to my own: a mixture of gratitude, fascination, curiosity, and attraction. I suppose I should have felt threatened, but I have come to enjoy Rackham’s company and I was too amused by the contrast between his squirrely intelligence and Vane’s brawny stoicism to object.

Vane’s pretended indifference to our strange mission to get Mr. Roundtree out of Boston evaporated after the first pint, as I had hoped it would. While Rackham was at the bar ordering our second round, Vane wondered aloud why I should trouble myself with someone as insignificant as Roundtree, speculating that he must have seen something. Rackham overheard this as he returned, nodding vigorously. 

“It was Anne,” he said meaningfully, and comprehension dawned at once on Vane’s features. 

“So you know about this as well?” I said to Vane, unable to contain my curiosity. Were such creatures truly so plentiful? And if so, why had I never encountered one before?

Vane nodded. “You would scarcely believe it if I told you. It’s difficult to comprehend even if you’ve seen it yourself, as I have. There’s a foul wind blowing in England right now, and it can turn reasonable men into beasts such as you’ve never imagined. We’re lucky Anne is on our side.”

“She doesn’t lose her reason when she -- well, you know,” added Rackham. “She still knows me. But she’s far from the only one. We met a woman in London last fall who I dearly wish we had not lost track of. She’s the one I worry about the most.”

I nodded knowingly. “Eleanor Guthrie. I have heard this as well.”

“Miss Guthrie? No, surely not,” said Rackham, drawing back sharply. Vane said nothing but grew very pale. “The woman I speak of has long black hair that she wears hidden beneath a hat to disguise herself as a man. I -- we, that is, Anne and I -- we thought she was a man at first, and things became rather complicated between her and Anne once she revealed her true identity. That’s when Anne started having these -- episodes, I suppose you could call them, whenever the moon was full.”

“Black hair, did you say?” I was leaning as far across the table as I could, trying to keep my voice low and yet burning with curiosity. “What is this woman’s name?”

 

“Read,” answered Vane darkly. “She calls herself William Read when she’s in disguise, but her true name is Mary.”

The name meant nothing to me, but I wanted to pass along the information to you, in case you have encountered this woman in your travels. I have to confess, James, it’s beginning to seem as if every woman you and I know secretly possesses this strange power to transform into a beast. I cannot tell whether to be relieved I retain my human form at all times, or envious that I do not acquire wolflike strength and speed and ferocity on a monthly basis as these women all seem to do. Certainly if I had lived as constrained a life as men seem to force them to do, I too might enjoy a respite from this tedium.

Please keep me apprised of your discoveries. I’m very much enjoying sharing this secret with you, my dearest. 

Yours, 

Thomas


End file.
